the way the cookie crumbles
by milk ghost
Summary: "If you say one word, I swear I will beat you with this rolling pin." Hate, love, and a variety of baked goods. Rivalry has never been this delicious.—pgg/rrb
1. take the cake

**disclaimer: **lol, no. **  
dedication: **to phantompottergirl, because she's very chill and we're both still freaking out about _more than human. _and also fall out boy, tbh. **  
notes:** i couldn't sleep the other night and thought of this instead. the rival bakery au that absolutely no one asked for. what am i doing with my life _what. _  
**notes2/important things to remember: **all human with full human features (fingers and toes), boys+girls are around sixteen or seventeen, no powers (_for now_). mojo jojo is not a super genius monkey because that'd be weird and him is not the lobster demon king of hell. bc, also weird.

**title: **take the cake

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(_let's play this game called "when you catch fire", i wouldn't piss to put you out_)

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**i.  
**Blossom collapses her umbrella and twirls the raindrops off of it before pushing the door open and stepping inside. A blast of warm air hits her straight in the face and she sighs in relief, closing the glass door behind her. She sets her umbrella in the stand by the entrance and threads her fingers through her hair in an attempt to release the tangles caused by the howling wind outside.

The weatherman had said that they would have a little rain, but there wasn't anything about a thunderstorm in the forecast. At least she'd been prepared today, unlike most of the populous of Townsville, apparently. She'd seen several people running for building eaves and shelter when the storm had broken out. Newspapers over heads might work for a little while, but aren't exactly dependable in the long run.

Her after-school programs had run over half an hour, and she'd been worried about being late for her shift, but the bakery is almost entirely empty, save for her two sisters. Blossom attributes it to the storm and people's unpreparedness, but maybe it was also because the clock says that it's almost five. Business will probably pick back up in twenty or so minutes, and she figures that she should use this free time to her advantage.

Blossom slips off her coat and hangs it on the hook by the door, then heads for the nearest corner booth. She has an essay for AP English to complete tucked away inside her backpack, and maybe she can finish the final draft before typing it up later tonight. For once it's nice and quiet—mostly peaceful, even—in the shop and a perfect environment to work in. She slides into her seat and lets out a sharp exhale as the feeling of cold leather seeps through her blouse and skirt.

She unzips her backpack and pulls the assignment out of it and turns to look at her sisters one last time before starting.

Buttercup is behind the counter, bobbing her head to some beat Blossom can't hear and twirling a pair of drumsticks. Bubbles is swaying to the quiet strains of pop music coming from the speaker system, chewing bubblegum and wiping down tables. Given that they've obviously hit a slow patch, the Professor is likely in the kitchen baking or out for a little while.

The dainty glass lights dangling from the ceiling are dimmed low, but are still bright enough to illuminate the open room—they aren't blinding, so that's nice. In fact, the whole bakery has a comforting air, and with the lull of the rain beating against the roof and the quiet music floating through the room, she could almost go to sleep. She can't remember the last time this has happened.

Bubbles is stepping and swaying back and forth across the tiles now, adding in a little twirl here and there. Her blonde pigtails bump and bounce against her shoulders as she dances, and Buttercup is thumbing through a cookbook picked up from the pile beside her that Blossom hadn't noticed before. It's her turn to make dinner tonight, and Blossom can't help but be a little excited because Buttercup's cooking is _divine. _The book looks French, too. Delicious.

Her youngest finally seems to notice her appearance as she spins around and chirps out a "hi Blossom!" and Buttercup's gaze slides up to meet hers for a brief second before she nods. Blossom smiles to herself and shifts her attention to the papers and pen in front of her. Yes, she decides, this is definitely a good thing.

Which is of course, abruptly shattered around ten minutes later when the bell above the front door lets out a soft _ring-a-ding. _Blossom is completely into writing and has apparently lost touch with reality, so she doesn't look up. But Buttercup does, and her expression immediately sours, though it switches to her blank poker-face one a second later.

"Well would you look at that," she says flatly, "if it isn't Tweedledum, Tweedledee, and Tweedledick."

Bubbles pauses mid-twirl, arms still raised and wet dish cloth dripping water onto the floor. "What?" She twists around to look at the entrance and suddenly drops her arms at the sight of the three boys standing by the door.

Butch snickers at her, Boomer looks just a little interested in what she'd been doing, and Brick really couldn't care less. "What's the matter, Barbie?" Butch grins, "You don't have to stop just on our account."

She smacks her gum around a few times and blows a pretty pink bubble before harshly popping it. "What do _you _guys want?"

Her tone is suspiciously close to a whine, and Buttercup hides a smile as she turns back to her book full of French cuisine. This has been going on for years, and so it's nothing new to her. A feud slash rivalry between bakeries is absolutely ridiculous, and yet it started almost as soon as the shop across the street opened.

Mojo Jojo—the owner of the bakery they could see through their front windows and father of the brothers currently in her family's shop—is a short, ape of a man who mostly talks in circles and uses a lot of redundancy, also hates her family with a burning passion. She's not exactly sure _what _possessed him to build his own bakery smackdab in the middle of downtown, only a short trip of about one hundred feet from them, but. For someone who's supposed to be so smart, he definitely makes some idiotic decisions, that much is sure.

So yeah, shortly after the grand opening of _Knead Bread?_—which also, like what the fuck, it's a cool name but it's also punny, and that's just crossing the damn line—right across from their bakery (_Confection Connection_, also cool, by the way) everyone officially met for the first time. Or, well, she and her sisters met the "Rowdyruff Boys" and it basically consisted of insults being thrown back and forth—mostly by the boys and herself—and Brick throwing a dish of lemon and raspberry dacquoise at Blossom. She retaliated by dumping a full tray of strawberry crème crepes over his head, heavy on the crème.

Buttercup would be lying if she said she still didn't find this hilarious. Mostly because Brick's face turned almost as red as his hair, and his own brothers had been laughing at him. Karma's a bitch, really. In summary, they hadn't ever gotten along since, though food wasn't used as ammunition in their war (most of the time) anymore. Blossom and Brick competed against each other in everything they could because they were always trying to be better than one another, she and Butch were always at odds, and Bubbles and Boomer…well, she didn't really know.

The point is, they didn't like each other. At all. And the boys always came over to pester them whenever the opportunity presented itself. Like right now, for instance.

What a bunch of assholes, honestly.

"We don't _want _anything," Brick responds, crossing his arm and glaring at Blossom out of his peripheral vision. She doesn't notice, and his eyes narrow even more. "At least not from this shitty dump."

"Then get out," Buttercup deadpans, not even glancing up from her cookbook. "No loitering. Or solicitors."

Bubbles tries to choke back a snort but fails miserably. Blossom still hasn't acknowledged the presence of their not-guests or patrons, and Buttercup thinks it's seriously pissing Brick off. Good. He's a moody little bitch, he deserves it.

Boomer is perusing their selection of goods with mild interest. "Do you guys have blueberry tart?"

Butch guffaws as their older brother smacks the blond upside the head. "Boomer, you absolute shithead, were you not _listening_ to anything I said?"

He looks up with half-wild eyes and a panicked expression on his face. "I-I'm just _hungry_," he insists frantically, which only makes Butch laugh harder.

"I usually just tune you out," he briefly sobers up to say seriously, then starts to cackle again at the look on Brick's face.

Buttercup inconspicuously slips out her phone and manages to snap a quick photo without anyone noticing. It's going to be her new lockscreen wallpaper. Beautiful.

Bubbles flails, slinging dirty table water all over the place, including Butch's open mouth. He sputters magnificently, and Buttercup snaps another picture for her background wallpaper. "_Ohmigosh, why _are you even still _here_?" the blonde moans and screeches at the same time. "_Leave._"

"No loitering dickheads," Buttercup repeats monotonously, and in Butch's general direction drones, "or soliciting."

Brick fumes. "_Fine_," he spits, and turns to leave. His brothers follow as per usual, and Butch sends a flippant wave to Buttercup. She sends him the finger.

They pass by Blossom's booth and Brick reaches over to tug the meticulously tied scarlet ribbon out of her hair. She immediately looks up, finally rejoining the world, long auburn locks falling all around her shoulders and a few strands in her face. Brick gives her a shit-eating grin and twines the ribbon between his fingers before disappearing out the door after his brothers, the piece of smooth fabric still in his possession.

Buttercup rolls her eyes and kicks her feet up on the counter as Blossom is too busy processing everything that's happened to scold her. Bubbles stirs up a mug of cinnamon hot chocolate and takes it to her oldest sister, who's just realized that her favorite hair ornament has been stolen.

"Jerks," she mutters under her breath and flips past a page about preparing escargot. She mentally begins to formulate a plan to get back at them, as Blossom is too goody-goody to do anything except get into explosive arguments with the oldest brother.

But first, she's going to need a fresh batch of strawberry crème crepes.

—  
_tbc_

**end notes:** a wise piece of information from my older brother: "boys only pick on girls because they like them, even though it's totally an asshole move." this could probably be considered as foreshadowing.


	2. sweet sensations

**notes: **this is fluff trash. i am valentine's day trash. you can blame my dad for never knowing what to get my mom and always coming to me for ideas. also what the fuck phantom you and amenah are always revealing my secrets like what is going on. stop that. it's like you guys can read minds or something. _  
_**other: **i listened to a disgusting amount of love songs while typing this up. i love this dumb holiday.

**title: **sweet sensations  
**summary: **Valentine's Day is right around the corner, and Bubbles it dateless and despairing. Also, there is eavesdropping.

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(_you and me are the difference between real love and the love on tv_)

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**ii. **So it's approximately three days until Valentine's Day, which roughly translates to seventy-two hours, and that's four thousand, three hundred and twenty minutes of giddily waiting until her favorite holiday. She'd add up the seconds too, but then that's just way too much math and she's never exactly excelled in the field of arithmetic anyway. The point is, it's three days until the greatest time of the year (excluding Christmas and their shared sister birthday) where people exchange gifts and go out for romantic dinners and let their loved ones know that they adore them.

Pokey Oaks' Annual Valentine's Day Dance is also coming up on the Friday night before the actual holiday, and everybody is buzzing about it. It's usually Bubbles' favorite dance too, and normally she would be so excited about it that it would almost be an inhuman level of giddiness, but. Let's return to the math, shall we.

The Valentine's Day Dance is in an estimated forty-eight hours, or two thousand, eight hundred and eighty minutes—which is two days—and Bubbles still doesn't have a date. Absolutely no boys have approached her with an invitation at all this year, and she doesn't know what's weirder—the fact that even _Buttercup _has a date, or that no one's even tried to ask her.

She doesn't want to sound conceited, that isn't the point, but there are usually at least _five _boys tripping over themselves to reach her before anyone else. She definitely isn't the prettiest girl in school (that'd be Blossom, according to a popular poll started by some anonymous student whose agenda has yet to be determined) but still, she has admirers. Admirers who are choosing a terrible time to stay in the shadows and not reveal themselves to her.

It's awful for other reasons as well, because she at this point she doesn't have a boyfriend, and nobody has asked her to the dance, and there are Valentine's related merchandise and decorations _everywhere. _There are pink and red heart garlands and streamers stretching across the ceiling, heart and "hugs and kisses" cookies in the shapes of x's and o's available in almost every store—including their own bakery, roses lining every shop window, and cards peeking out from displays. The school music club is even offering to play musical Valentines all day Friday, for a fee of course, _but still. _

The worst part is, she even meticulously decorated _and_ supervised the decorating of the bakery. She's done it every year since she turned ten, and it always looks spectacular—not her speaking, although if she says so herself it really does, but voted on by the city. This year, however, all the pink and red and lace seems to mock her and her lack of any romantic relationship. In fact, she swears that the cherub on the name card in front of her is laughing at her misery.

She feels her stomach churn at the sight of almost anything pink or red at this point, and wonders in horror if this is what Buttercup feels like for the weeks leading up to February 14th every year.

"You're moping all over the red velvet cupcakes," her dark-haired sister notes. "You'll spoil them with your extreme sadness vibes. They'll probably seep through the cake and into the unsuspecting couples in love who eat them and infect them with your heartbreak."

Speak of the she-devil.

Bubbles lets her head drop onto the display case glass. "Good," she mumbles bitterly, _then maybe some of it will leave me. _

Buttercup raises her brows and looks at her sister in concern. Cheerful, perky Bubbles who probably loves Valentine's Day more than her own family and uses it as an excuse to wear every pink or red thing in her wardrobe and sometimes buy new clothes just because. Peppy, cute Bubbles who is currently draped over the counter in defeat, dressed in the darkest blouse and skirt Buttercup thinks her sister owns.

Okay, maybe they hadn't taken this whole thing as seriously as they should have.

She sighs loudly and, casting a quick glance at the patrons munching down on their V-Day goodies, drags herself over to her little sister. "Alright, spill. You've been in this un-Bubbles-like _mood _all week and it's really throwing me off."

Bubbles peers up at her and sniffs. "Am I doomed to live my entire life in crippling loneliness?"

"What—"

"What if boys just don't like me anymore," the blonde continues, looking up in alarm. "What if no one ever asks me out on a date ever again? What if I become a crazy cat lady who owns like, a hundred felines and hordes Butterfinger wrappers? _I don't want to become a crazy cat lady who hordes candy wrappers," _she wails, grabbing onto her sister's jacket.

Buttercup puts her hands up in surrender and stares. "Bubbles, you're not going to become a crazy cat lady."

"But what about—"

"_And _you're not going to horde Butterfinger wrappers, okay? Seriously, like how the hell did you reach any of those conclusions? You don't even _like _Butterfingers," the middle girl shakes her head and snorts. "I don't know what you're so worried about anyway. Half the population of boys at school turn into stammering idiots when you pass by them, so chill."

Bubbles glares at her shoes and mutters, "This coming from the girl who has a date to the dance."

Buttercup gawks. "_That's _what this whole thing is about? And seriously, Mitch and I are going as _friends, _okay. Get that into your pretty little matchmaking head, because I don't want any misguided ideas forming in that freaky brain of yours. And you're not the only without a date; Blossom doesn't have one either."

"_Blossom_ thinks that Valentine's Day is a holiday fabricated by the greeting card industry to sell people 'useless and ridiculous junk' in the form of hearts, naked little angels, flowers, and candy because apparently _humanity _is comprised of gullible saps and stupid people who think they need to buy all this stuff to show their crushes that they love them," Bubbles grouses, making violent hand-slash gestures. "_Blossom _thinks that Valentine's Day is obnoxious and unnecessary because _Blossom _doesn't know what it's like to be given flowers or even a dumb heart-shaped sucker by someone who _likes _her."

Buttercup lets out a low whistle and crosses her arms, looking the tiniest bit impressed. "Damn Bubbles, I think that's the most unforgiving speech I've ever heard you give."

The blonde visibly deflates and tugs at her low ponytails. "I'm sorry I just—Valentine's Day is my favorite holiday and she always disses it, and maybe that stuff _is _true, but that doesn't mean people can't enjoy a day for romance."

"Well that and she's still grumpy about her favorite hair ribbon," Buttercup says, tapping her chin. "We should probably get her a box of chocolate-covered strawberries or something to cheer her up."

Bubbles nods and lets her chin fall into her hand. "I'm just saying that it's nice to be adored every once in a while is all," she mumbles, still looking dejected.

"Come on, cheer up. I'll tell you what I got you for V-Day is you do—I know that you try to find my hiding spot for gifts each year," her sister grins, nudging Bubbles with her elbow.

She sputters. "Wha—I do not! There's no way I would do something like that…"

Buttercup rolls her eyes and lets out a snort. "You're such a terrible liar. We are never using you to get out of something, ever. Anyway, I'm sure some dumb, cute boy will ask you to the dance in a totally mushy way that'll make me puke and you squeal so loud you break the sound barrier, so come on. Show me a smile."

"I got you a blanket," Bubbles admits suddenly, sending her a small smile. "I saw you eyeing it the other day."

Bright green eyes light up, and her sister tries to hide her excitement. "The one with the little candy pieces all over it?"

The blonde nods, smile growing. "That's the one. Now," Bubbles leans forward, eyes mischievous, "I showed you mine, it's your turn."

Buttercup snickers and waves a hand. "Fine, whatever. Oh and by the way, even if no one asks you to the dance, you could always go stag."

"What?! Ew!"

They laugh for almost a full minute before a customer walks up to the counter and they have to get back to work, which is why they don't notice when someone slips out of the corner booth and out the door. Bubbles glances up at the tinkling sound of the bell, but only catches a glimpse of blond hair in the sea of people around the room.

A boy from choir finally asks her to the dance the next day, and Friday night is everything she'd hoped it would be. She gets to wear a pretty—pink—dress and sparkly heels and dance the evening away with the brunet boy who, as it turns out, would make excellent boyfriend material.

x

Saturday, the morning of her long-awaited favorite holiday, she steps out onto the front porch to get the morning paper for the Professor, but is instead surprised to see a box of chocolates and a letter in a pink envelope addressed to her. Bubbles opens it carefully and slips the note out, reading over it a total of five times.

_I hope you feel adored on your favorite holiday. It'd be a shame if a girl as cute as you thought that no one liked her. _

_Ps. I don't think you'll ever become a crazy cat lady who collects candy wrappers. But I got you a box of chocolates just in case._

_Love, _

_You secret admirer_

x

Friday is also the day that Blossom finds about fifty Valentines stuffed into her locker, which leaves her very distraught, Buttercup strangely smug for some reason unknown to her, and Bubbles with a ridiculous smile. Of course, Brick makes an effort to mock her about it every single chance he gets, Butch guffawing about it for about a week afterward, and Boomer indifferent.

Typical.

_tbc  
_—

**end notes: **at least i think it was you. that's what happens when you don't sign your reviews, but i'm pretty sure. also i hope you know that it was understandably difficult to find appropriate fall out boy lyrics to fit this chapter. you almost got maroon 5. ps. bubbles, buttercup, and boomer had nothing to do with all blossom's cards/whatever else was in that mess that fell out of her locker when she opened it. she might have a fan club.


	3. in your face cakes

**notes: **i've already forgotten the bakery names, set me on fire. princess is bound to come in at some point, probably next chapter. also, apparently you guys are convinced that the valentine incident was brick's doing. he's a sad, angsty weenie who doesn't have an ounce of romance in his bones. (_maybe._) like, when i said she had a fan club, i meant it. but believe what you'd like. **  
****dedication: **to _off (game) _which i started playing halfway through this, so it almost didn't get finished. or posted. and _flannels, _who leaves nice reviews and loves the greens too.  
**extra, extra: **there are so many fob lyrics that apply to the greens, i feel like i'm on a rollercoaster that only goes up. forever. that's it.

**titles:** in your face cakes**  
****summary: **There's always that _one _customer, and Buttercup is ready to throw herself off a building if it means avoiding them forever. Also, there is a hella ton of rain. So much rain.

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(_i'm sleeping on your folk's porch again, dreaming, she said, she said, she said, "why don't you just drop dead?"_)

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**iii. **Buttercup is not having the best of days, and just for the record, it has probably been one of the worst in her entire week. Possibly month. Maybe three months, but anyway.

It had kicked off as well as one could expect when you live in the Utonium household—her dad leaving at an unholy hour to start baking, Blossom rising from bed two hours later and still managing to look like a fucking fairy tale princess despite it being five in the awful morning. That was just unnatural, but she had long ago learned to accept the fact that her older sister was probably a freak of nature. It was just easier to live life that way.

Anyway, Blossom—who is a hundred times worse than an alarm—had made Buttercup and Bubbles get out of bed and around. Bubbles looked like she was ready to forgo Tuesday all together and retreat back under her covers, and Buttercup would have gladly joined in. It's nice to have one normal sister, at least. They had somehow managed to shower and get dressed before dragging themselves downstairs for breakfast, over which there had been an argument about who would take the closing shift at the bakery tonight.

Blossom had rushed them all out the door shortly thereafter, hurriedly braiding her hair and yelling things about being late for her AP Government exam and "stupid hair ribbons" and "equally stupid boys." There had been a surprise pop quiz in Chem today that she had not been prepared for, and lunch was still half-frozen because she was so tired the night before that'd she'd forgotten to pack the normal communal sister lunch. Cafeteria food, ugh. She swore to never eat any of it again.

To top it all off, the skies were still dumping literal buckets of rain on them. Like, it has been raining for almost an entire week. The streets were flooded or flood_ing, _and because of Blossom rushing them this morning, she had left the house without an umbrella. Which, of course, meant that she had gotten soaked straight through—both on the way to school and on her after-school downtown trip to the bakery. That had pretty much sucked, and now there was a high chance of her catching a cold or the flu or _something, _which is also a major blow.

She's also been dealing with a particularly difficult customer—who has been holding up the line—for the past ten minutes trying to make them understand that _no, _they do _not _sell gooseberry pies. Needless to say, it is not going well, and presently she reasoned that either jumping off the roof or spending the day locked up with Pablo and Blossom would be better than _this. _

"But you must sell gooseberry pies, that's basically a requirement when opening a pie shop," the insistent patron shakes his head.

Buttercup's attempt to get her point across was not hitting home, apparently. Maybe no one _is _home up there in the man's head, she honestly wouldn't be surprised. So at this point of her day, she's prepared to behead someone and stick the extremity on a pole outside of the bakery as a warning to any and all bad happenings to _stay the hell away from her. _

She drags a hand down her face and groans. "For the _last time, _we don't bake or _sell _gooseberry pies. And we're a bakery, not just a pie shop. I am not Ned the Piemaker, you are not standing in The Pie Hole,_ this is not Pushing Daisies._"

Gooseberry Patron tut-tuts to himself as Buttercup contemplates faking her death and moving to Los Angeles. Or possibly just stabbing herself with a fork. Anything to get away from this nightmare. "Not even a slice?"

"_No_," she ignores his petulant tone of voice and prays to any deity that will listen that maybe, just maybe he'll go away and never ever, ever come back.

He narrows his eyes at her, then at the menu, then switches his gaze back to her. "But it's National Gooseberry Month, you _have _to make gooseberry pies."

Buttercup's fingers are twitching toward the nearest platter of pastries—raspberry and vanilla tarts—more than ready to throw the whole thing at him. "No, sir, and there isn't a National Gooseberry Month. Can I interest you in some tarts instead? Raspberry with vanilla crème, perhaps?"

(She would know if such a celebration dedicated to mostly ignored berries existed, because her father and Bubbles would make them all participate in it. Confection Connection would also have a completely new menu filled with all things gooseberry, no matter how obscure the fruit is.)

Her target seems to think her offer over for a few seconds before shaking his head again. "Actually, I'm not even that hungry. Funny how that works out, huh?"

She watches in frustration and distress as he just _turns and walks out the door _after arguing with her about stupid pie for fifteen minutes of her day. What precious time, wasted. Completely miserable, Buttercup slowly turns to the line of patiently waiting customers who are surprisingly, all still there. Well, at least they didn't seem to have lost any business, just what was probably left of her sanity.

Things slow down for a bit after she serves the twelve or so people who knew _exactly _what they wanted from the baked goods they actually, you know, _have. _She sighs in relief and slumps against the counter, wondering for all the world how someone could get so hung up on wanting one fricking _pie. _

So, recounting her day one more time and all the miserable things that have happened—waking up early (as per usual, but), leaving home without her umbrella, pop quiz, getting soaked, the ever possible threat of a cold despite her extremely hardy immune system, and the worst patron she's had to deal with in a while, she is extremely grateful for the lull in business and slight break. Even the peppy pop music Bubbles has playing isn't bothering her.

And then Butch.

A complete sentence isn't actually required when it comes down to dealing with and understanding the middle Johnson brother, because if you've ever dealt with him, you would understand.

He just strolls in through one of the double glass doors, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, hair and face partially hidden by the hood of his sweatshirt. She figures that he probably slipped across the street when she wasn't paying attention, and he's dripping water everywhere. Well, almost. Most of it runs off of him while he's standing on the doormat, and Buttercup watches as he shakes his head and the rain droplets fly and splatter the marble floor nearby.

Butch pulls down his hood and brushes a hand through his hair, then he spots her staring at him from behind the counter, and a shit-eating grin crosses his face. She narrows at eyes at him as he walks over and leans against the counter, everyone around them oblivious to the two of them.

"Hey sweetheart."

Buttercup feels the spite building in her chest. "Asshole. To what do I owe this displeasure? Blossom isn't here, she's at ballet class," she adds in the last part almost as an afterthought.

He doesn't look the least bit disappointed though, which only serves to raise her suspicion level even more. "Actually, I didn't come by because of that. I just wanted to stop in and see you, Sunshine."

"We saw each other at school today," she deadpans, "and what makes you think I'm happy to go through the pain of enduring your presence any more than I absolutely have to?"

Butch leans over the counter and smirks at her. "Maybe because you secretly love me, I don't know. That'd be great actually, because then I'd get the genuine pleasure of breaking your pathetic little heart."

She scoffs at him. "Oh, using big words now, are we? Did you borrow Brick's dictionary or something? Get it, dick-tionary? Because your brother is a dick? Look at me go," she laughs to herself as Butch's smirk disappears. "Ah, that was a tear-jerker. On that note, what in your screwed up head could possibly make you think that I'd ever have a stupid crush on you? What are we, five?"

"Says the girl who went to the V-Day dance with her best friend as, y'know, _friends_. At least I have girls actually interested in me."

Buttercup scowls at him. "Whatever. Either buy something or get out, loser."

Butch smirks at her, and she somehow finds it within herself to hate him even more. "Loser, huh? At least I didn't walk into school looking like I'd survived Hurricane Katrina this morning."

"I can't help it if Townsville has turned into fucking Silent Hill, asscrack. Blossom was rushing me this morning, so I forgot my umbrella. Also, that wind is friggin' brutal—I was almost blown halfway down Tenth Street on my way here, so leave me the hell alone," she grouses.

He snorts at her. "Wish I coulda seen that. I bet you were a mess."

Wait a minute. Were they…were they _talking_? As in, having a less hostile than usual conversation wherein absolutely no threats had been made? What—

"You're so light you probably would've blown away and we'd have never seen you again. A shame really. I could have pulled on Bubbles' dumb pigtails and you wouldn't have been there to protect her."

—_and it's gone. _

Resisting the urge to just sucker punch him right there, Buttercup sneers. "Ahaha _ha_, I'm gonna fucking set you on fire, dickweed. In fact, I am going to suffocate you with pie crust and then I'm going to stuff you full of friggin' gooseberries until they come out of your nose, then stick you in the oven and bake you at three-fifty for thirty-five to forty minutes. That outta shut you up, and Butch-pie will be our special for the day."

Butch leers back at her. "Will I be hot enough for you then? You gonna sneak a taste before serving me up? C'mon Sunshine, you know you want a slice of this."

He gestures to himself with one hand in a grand sweep, and she narrows her eyes so much they're barely slits. "You know what, I take it back—nothing about you is salvageable. I'll just have to throw you in the garbage where you belong, with all the other trash."

Butch makes a mocking wounded expression and places a hand over his heart. "That hurts me right here, you know."

"Good," she huffs.

He stuffs his hand in his pockets again before turning to leave. "Well, this has been fun, sweetheart. I'll see you in school tomorrow if you don't drown yourself on the way home tonight. Don't slip."

Buttercup's glare follows him out the door and across the street until he's out of sight entirely. Rolling her eyes so hard she almost scores a strike, she sighs and drapes herself over the counter. Talking to Butch always exhausts her, mainly because he is an asshole and she has the insatiable urge to punch him every time he's around.

She glances up when her fingers brush something cool and smooth. There's something sitting by the counter, and she's about to explode because that fucking moron thinks he can leaving his crap wherever and all over just to annoy her. She's going to rip him a new one, but then she notices the scrap of notebook paper with her name on it stuck to whatever junk Butch left, and she looks at it suspiciously. Buttercup picks it up and flips it over, scanning the paper in blatant disbelief.

She squints at the atrocious chicken-scratch he calls handwriting and purses her lips.

_I noticed you stupidly forgot your umbrella today, so I left you one because when your shirt gets soaked, people can see your bra. Black lace, classy. As much as I love it when you publicly embarrass yourself, not everyone wants their child to be scarred for life. Also, it'd be a fucking drag if you died of a cold or something. _

_The umbrella's black too, just like your bra and soul. _

_Enjoy, Sunshine. _

_Butch_

Buttercup is going to fucking strangle him alright, but after she uses his dumb umbrella to get home nice and dry. Then she'll come up with a body disposal plan.

_tbc  
_—

**end notes:** now excuse me while i go watch _pushing daisies _and make myself something to eat because writing a bakery au can make a girl very, very hungry. one last thing though, do you guys have any fan casts or something of what the girls + guys would look like as actual people? if so, i'd love to hear them.


	4. sour dough

**notes: **cheers to the summer for all you iced americanos out there, and whoever else is in the summer season.also, butch is a complete (not so) closet chocolate snob, this has been a psa. and every time one of her sisters (sometimes consecutively) plays _the 1975 _and 'chocolate' comes on, buttercup thinks of him. **  
****dedication: **to all you readers out there. this wouldn't be possible without you. seriously, your reviews are sometimes the highlight of my day. **  
****rambling: **EVERY TIME I PAUSE MY MUSIC A GUY STARTS YELLING AT ME ABOUT PEANUT BUTTER HEL P ME.

**title: **sour dough**  
summary: **The human equivalent of bad hair and Monday walks into the bakery. Meanwhile, Brick notices something strange about Blossom.

.

.

.

(_this conversation's been dead on arrival, there's no way to talk to you...and  
i'm so sorry, but not really_)

.

.

.

**iv. **It is a cloudy and rainy Wednesday afternoon when the incarnation of doom, despair, and frizzy hair walks through their front door. This disaster of a human being is otherwise known as Princess Morbucks—one of the richest, brattiest, snobbiest people in existence. Some alternate synonyms may also include: the Bane of the Utonium Sisters' existence, Frizzbrat Extraordinaire, Why the Hell Are You Here, Seriously You Hate Us, Witch of the Wicked West, (debatably) Public Enemy Number One, and Ultimate Snobfest. Most of these names have been appointed to the recipient by the middle Utonium sister, along with other more colorful ones as well.

Buttercup's first thought upon noticing her presence is, _do not want. _

Then, _am I really considering going to jail with little to no hope of parole right now because of the plans I am making. _

Bubbles tries to be a little more civil. "Princess," she says cheerfully—like you'd never know the redhead had humiliated her only a few hours prior, "can I help you?"

"Yeah, straight out the door," Buttercup mumbles viciously and shoves a donut onto its tray so hard the filling squirts out.

Okay, so a lot more civil.

Her younger sister shoots her a _look, _though Bubbles' version of Blossom's infamous 'so help me if you don't cut that out _this_ _instant_' warning glare is more pleading and imploring than stern and threatening. Buttercup pretends not to notice, but settles back and narrows her eyes at the redhead like she's a sniper singling in on her target through a scope.

Princess flicks some of her uncontrollable red curls over her shoulder and presses her equally red lips together in disdain. "If it isn't the freakazoid triplets. Where's your third head, freaks?"

"_Blossom_," Bubbles stresses, bordering on unkind territory, "is in the kitchen. You know, baking. As this is a bakery and we do in fact need to do that, so."

Yes, Blossom is back in the kitchen, checking the strudels and basking in the warm heat of the oven and sense of security away from the evil villain standing in front of them. For some reason it was always more bearable to have their eldest sister around when they had to deal with Princess. Maybe because she put Bubbles a little more at ease and kept Buttercup at bay. Possibly. In any case, her presence is severely missed at the moment and the second sister is considering how a lawsuit against them would hold up in court if she "accidentally spilled" an entire tray of cherry Danishes on Princess.

Buttercup turns back to her task of refilling the donut case. It's part of her handy thought process of 'maybe if I don't look at her, she'll go away', which she constantly uses to help her survive. The only problem is that it doesn't usually work.

Princess glances around and over her shoulder, and for the first time Buttercup and Bubbles fully notice her apparel. She's dressed in a sparkly golden trench coat, probably Louis Vuitton sunglasses, and there's a loose leopard print scarf wrapped loosely around her neck. She'd probably been shooting for the classic inconspicuous look, but it's still flashy and more her stand out more than anything. Most likely there isn't one person in Townsville who wouldn't recognize _the _Princess Morbucks.

Bubbles approaches this new information with much caution. "Um, Princess? Are you…is this…what exactly?"

She pushes her enormous glasses up and eyes the blonde in contempt. "'This,'" she begins, making air quotes, "never happened, okay. It's off the record. We don't speak of this ever again."

"Yeah, yeah. We get it. We won't expose you by telling everyone that you walked into the bakery the Utomium family owns and operates," Buttercup cuts in.

Princess looks uncharacteristically pleased, then her expression turns sour. "So we're on the same page then. Listen up dweebs, I need five dozen of your best mille-feiulle, seven boxes of macaroons, two dozen croissants, and three dozen kouign amann by Saturday. Once you write this down I'll give you the delivery time and address."

Buttercup holds up her hands, not even trying to hide her disbelief. "Wait, wait, wait. Stop. Are you…_the _Princess Morbucks, who is too high and mighty to even give us the time of day—_commissioning us to cater for an event_? Is that what's going on here right now, or am I dreaming?"

Princess simpers and pouts—the full on bottom lip jutting out, eyebrows drawn together, and nose crinkled thing—but heaves the heaviest sigh to ever escape her Jezebel mouth. "I thought we agreed to never speak of this _ever_."

"Just making sure."

Bubbles watches her sister's brain short-circuit, and decides to take the initiative of continuing the conversation while she tries to catch back up. "But why are you asking us? Not that…it's just…you _hate _us. Don't you usually do business with the Johnsons?"

"They're like a hundred foot walk from us. They are literally right across the street," Buttercup drones, "I'm looking in their window this very moment. They're having a sale on rye and crème puffs today. Also, aren't you like, in love with them or something?"

Princess turns almost as red as her hair and huffs, crossing her arms and tapping her foot against the floor in her agitated way. "Yes well," she starts uncomfortably, "the last time I was in there to order from them…Butch was the only one in the entire shop and…"

Buttercup leans forward slightly in anticipation, wondering just what the middle brother had done that was so horrible it made even _Princess Morbucks _uncomfortable. Especially because she has a particular type and the only requirement is simply that you must be a Johnson brother who works at Knead Bread. He made an unnecessary amount of dirty jokes on all occasions, and flirted with anything that was female, but Princess didn't seem to mind any of that at all. And she would've been more than happy to make out with him in the supply closet or something equally as gross, so that was out too.

"…he spilled dark chocolate ganache all over my favorite white feather bolero! Do you even know how that stains? _Do you_?!"

Bubbles sighs to herself as Princess launches into a rant about how it would never be the same again, and how that shade of brown just isn't her color—or any brown at all really—and the blonde thinks her head's about to spin. She pulls a notepad and pen out of her apron pocket and waves a hand at their unexpected customer.

"Okay, so. You want all of this ready by when?"

Princess stops in the middle of her spiel about alligator purses and the nastiest shade of brown she's ever laid eyes on, and blinks. Buttercup can practically see the gears turning in her head. "I want them to be delivered by two this Saturday. The party starts at three, and they need to be as fresh as possible."

"That's order by pickup only for such a large receipt," Buttercup says smugly, enjoying the taste of newfound power she's been granted over who is perhaps her greatest foe in life. It may only be because Confection Connection and Knead Bread are the top bakeries in the city, and definitely the only ones worth trying, not to mention capable of filling an order like that, for such an upscale event. As much as Buttercup hates to admit about the latter bakery.

The Morbucks heiress cringes, but seems only mildly inconvenienced. "I see. All of that definitely wouldn't fit in that crawl space you call a car. Fine, I'll send someone to pick them up—just have them ready by then, freaks."

"It's called a station wagon, thanks. See ya, couldn't ever stand to be ya," Buttercup mock waves, a sneer pulling at her lips.

Princess tosses her head before tugging her scarf up over her curls and sliding her sunglasses back on. "Whatever losers, I'm leaving. Don't mess this up, or I'll make sure it's your last job ever. Also, watch your backs. Daddy is totally buying this place, because we all know whose baking skills are superior here."

Buttercup rolls her eyes. "Buh-bye, Martha Smartass. Please show yourself to the door because our butler seems to be out at the moment as he doesn't have time for your bullcrap."

The girls watch as the redheaded girl stomps her heel before spinning on it and walking out into the apparently permanent weather forecast: rain. Buttercup fans herself with a menu and leans up against the counter, mumbling, "same shit, different day."

One of the main reasons for her dislike of Princess Morbucks—aside from the major attitude problem and her contempt for the Utomium sisters—is that nearly every time she lays eyes on them, she threatens to take over their store. Well, her father, anyway, but same difference. It's the shop her parents put so much effort into; their blood, sweat, and tears are the foundation of this company. Their mother loved baking, and adored their little bakery just as much. It's as much her legacy as the girls are, and Buttercup will be damned if she lets a self-entitled brat like Princess think she can just waltz in and destroy everything.

Bubbles taps her on the shoulder and offers a tentative smile, and Buttercup loosens her fists. Her younger sister gives her a wink—in her cute little way that leaves all the boys fawning over her—and makes a cowboy shooter at her with one hand. "Hey, it'll be alright, okay? We will diffuse this bomb before it explodes, and then all the little space people will be pleased and universal hierarchy and order will be restored."

Some of the patrons sitting close to the counter turn to give her incredulous looks, but Buttercup is barely able to keep from laughing. To everyone else, it sounds like a bunch of nonsense—or that maybe Bubbles is _the _stereotypical dumb blonde like in all the jokes—but in reality it's just terrible code made up in the spur of the moment.

She snickers to herself as their bewildered customers turn back to their orders but still eye Bubbles occasionally as she cheerfully attends to everyone. Buttercup catches a glimpse of Butch dicking around in Knead Bread and smirks. He probably "spilled" that ganache on Princess intentionally. He didn't like her any more than she did—maybe even less, since the heiress was always trying to hit on him and his brothers. He turns and she quickly looks away to avoid being caught staring. But out of the corner of her eye, she sees Butch smirk and flip her off.

Slowly, she lifts a chocolate croissant drizzled with more chocolate sauce—nicknamed the Double Dulce Downer, and his favorite—from its case. She runs the tip of her tongue along the sauce to pick up any excess before biting into it. Buttercup is well aware that Butch isn't the least bit vision-impaired, and can see exactly what she's doing. He looks frustrated. Probably because Mojo doesn't have his favorite pastry on the menu, and anyway, the Utoniums use a secret family recipe so none of the croissants you get anywhere else taste as good as theirs do.

Buttercup licks her fingers and leans back, sending a self-satisfied smirk his way.

Butch uses both fingers to flip her off this time.

x

Brick rubs his hands together and frowns when his breath fogs up the air in front of him. He's glad that the apartment is only a few blocks from the bakery, because tonight is colder than the forecast predicted and he only brought his jacket. At least it's stopped raining for a little bit. It's a miracle they haven't experienced any damn flash flooding yet from the seemingly eternal downpour.

He slips the backdoor's key into his pocket and rubs the back of his neck before turning to head home. But something moving out of his peripheral catches his attention, and he looks over out of curiosity. He's not entirely surprised to see Blossom, shivering like a leaf and half-flailing as she locks up her family's bakery. Must be that they both got the end shifts while everyone else went home to enjoy their Friday night.

She rubs her arms and pauses to look up at the night sky. They're smack dab in the middle of the city though, so it's not like she can see any stars—maybe just planes passing by overhead. But she still sees something that makes her smile, and he wonders if maybe she's imaging her favorite constellations overhead or something. She'd be the type to do that.

Brick expects her to head in the direction of her home when she finally breaks out of her trance, but she doesn't. Instead, Blossom goes in the direct opposite direction. He shakes his head and thinks that maybe she's still spaced out, maybe he should go and ask her if she's okay, possibly save her from getting mugged or worse because she's headed into the inner heart of Townsville—and it isn't exactly known for its stellar reputation—but he scowls at himself instead.

So off Blossom goes, until she disappears behind a corner, auburn hair flickering in the sparse streetlights. He rolls his eyes and sighs before shoving his hands in his pockets and starts the trek home. No late night adventures for him, thanks.

But he keeps in mind to take the closing shift next Friday too, just to see if this is a regular occurrence.

_tbc  
_—_  
_

**end notes:** more greens, whoops.  
**helpful hints: **mille-feiulle (pronounced _meel-foy_) is just the french name for what we sometimes call napoleons—which are made of razor-thin puff pastry and filled with custard/creme. they're really delicious! _kouign amann _(pronounced _queen-ah-mahn_) are what's called breton cake. they're round crusty cake made with bread dough and layers of butter and sugar folded in. and they say you can't learn anything reading fanfiction.


	5. cake a diem

**notes: **last night i accidentally opened passbook on my phone and temporarily blinded myself for ten minutes. also, i know i make fun of brick a lot, but despite the fact that he's a broody little asshole, i still love him. **  
****dedication: **to jordan (aka _two red converse_). you know why. also go check her out because she is the sweetest and has a superb coffee shop au. 11/10 would recommend.  
**also: **so _apparently _ffnet is leaving out words in my notes? so if you notice anything off, it's because of that.

**title: **cake a diem**  
summary: **Blossom plots payback, and Brick is blindsided by her brilliance. In more ways than one.

.

.

.

(_i sleep in your old shirts and walk through this house in your shoes; i know it's  
a strange way of saying that i know i'm supposed to love you_)

.

.

.

**v. **Blossom isn't often bitter.

That's more of Buttercup's expertise and domain. She can sometimes be the human version of espresso. Blossom is, if anything, the exact opposite of that. She doesn't stay out late, she doesn't play her music too loud, or go to parties, or do anything that wouldn't be considered good behavior. Not that either of her sisters do those things—aside from blasting their music sometimes—but. The point is, she's not a wild child or anything.

And so, she has also never once in all her life stolen something.

She's always been a bit of a goody-two-shoes, as told by Buttercup and at least two other choice people who she won't name right now. She's tied for first place in grades among her class, she does her chores and work without complaint (cough unlike a certain _somebody _she's related to cough), and she even helps at the homeless shelter on weekends, sometimes.

But now? Now she's angry, and it's growing ever steadily in her heart. A small seed carelessly tossed aside that's taken root in her heart, and there's bound to be a plentiful harvest this year. A spark that's ignited a wildfire inside her. She huffs and puffs and she is going to blow a house down, even if it tarnishes her spotless reputation. Something precious was stolen from her, and if she can't have it back, well, then she is going to take something of equal importance.

Wasn't the term equivalent exchange or something? Or written in the laws of the universe—according to Buttercup, anyway. Maybe it was just fair and square. Like what fathers always tell their sons, 'if they hit you, you hit them back just as hard.' The way Blossom sees it, it's an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.

Or in this case, a baseball cap for a hair ribbon.

Blossom has spent the better half of her Saturday off Googling art heists through history and watching _Mission: Impossible. _So far, she's taken two composition pages full of notes, eaten at least seven of Buttercup's sinfully delicious chocolate chip cookies, and developed a set of skills which she hopes that she'll never have to use. Also maybe a tiny, minuscule celebrity crush on young Tom Cruise, but that is inconsequential at the moment.

She's sprawled out on her bed, laptop playing the end credits music, as she studies her work. Her hair is pulled back into a messy bun, and she's still in a pair of sweatpants and an old band shirt of Buttercup's. The redhead taps her glitter pen against her chin and furrows her brows, eyes scanning the pages and her neat, loopy handwriting intently.

Like all the great art thefts of their time—art heists are classier than robbing a bank, and people tend to die less, so—this one has to be planned to perfection. Nothing can go wrong, it just isn't in the cards; and she's going to make sure it _stays _that way. She has a Plan B, a Plan C, and even a Plan D. Everything must be pulled off _flawlessly _for this entire thing to work. If she's caught, or if something goes awry, all her work will be for naught.

Maybe she's just being extremely petty. And possibly childish, but this is a serious matter, okay.

Blossom picks up the list of impressive heists she'd carefully researched, and sighs. She wouldn't be able to dig a tunnel under her target and then strike like the thieves who robbed The National Fine Arts Museum in Paraguay back in 2002—she didn't have that much time, or enough money to rent a building to start digging under. But the planning part is important, she knows that well enough. The men who raided The Isabella Gardner Museum in 1990 had the right idea—disguises. They got away with literal millions worth in fine art, and still haven't been caught. She won't be using any weaponry or threatening anyone, because that's not like her.

She's already doing something she wouldn't normally do—_ever. _There's no need to go that far. Also, those kinds of things make it easier to be traced and caught.

What's she's taking isn't worth a ransom call, or millions of dollars either. Maybe just sentimental value, and she's not even sure about _that. _But she has her carefully mapped out plan, and she has determination. All she has to do now is check out the scene of her future crime, and then everything will be set into motion.

"This is going to require some recon," she says to Octi, whose button gaze is accusing and unrelenting.

Blossom tries her best to ignore the doll's blank stare and stands, stretching. She has to get going if she wants to do this tonight. It's the only time she has available at the moment, so. The date is nonnegotiable. She opens her closet door and pulls out a hoodie and plain jeans, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips.

It's payback time.

x

Bubbles leans over the counter and pouts at her. "Blossom, what are you doing here? Isn't today your day off? Hey, hey. You're in here way too much already. That's why dad gave you an extra day _off_."

The eldest sister smiles at her and waves. "That's no way to greet someone, Bubbles. I just thought I would stop in and say hi. It gets lonely at home when I'm by myself."

"Well if you say so," the blonde says, narrowing her eyes suspiciously, but she smiles brightly. "I was just teasing. It's just kind of weird because you don't usually come in until later to help with cleanup and stuff."

Blossom brushes some fringe out of her eyes and takes in the bustling shop around her. It isn't raining today—or it hasn't _yet_—but patrons still came prepared, their umbrellas resting in the rack by the door or leaning next to their tables. The bakery isn't extremely busy right now because it's only three pm, but there are always stragglers in between rushes on the weekends. Especially on Saturdays. Bubbles has soft music playing in the background, and everything almost makes her want to just stay here and forget her vendetta. On Saturday evenings her youngest sister plays the ukulele and sings instead of just having the music system on in the background, and Blossom doesn't like missing it.

But.

She tucks a stray lock of auburn hair behind her ear—it's all loose because of her absent hair ribbon, the reason she's doing all of this—and laughs. "Yeah, I know. I was just out and wanted to stop in and see you. I'm not sure that…that I'll be able to make it tonight. I'm um, I'm not feeling very well so," she fidgets with the sleeves of her sweatshirt. "So I just wanted to let you know."

Well, she's not exactly _lying. _She doesn't feel well at all. In fact, her confidence in this venture is fading fast, and her anger over the whole thing is disappearing even faster. Her whole plan has '_BAD IDEA_' stamped all over it in red ink, and it's surrounded by striped caution tape warning her not to go through with it. But she also finished what she starts—excluding that one cross stitch 'Bless This Home' project that's been buried in her closet since the sixth grade. She just wasn't good at that. How many times did she prick her fingers again? It was pretty bad when she had to use a thimble in something that wasn't even _hand sewing. _

Blossom starts in surprise as Bubbles reaches over the counter and puts a hand on her forehead. "Hmm, you do feel a little warm, and you're even dressed down today. Not that you don't look good! You just, you can make anything look good. Um, you also look a little flushed. You should be at home, resting, instead of here!"

She laughs and holds up her hands in surrender. "I know, I know. And I'm going. There's just a few errands that I have to run before that. Then I promise to go home."

Bubbles purses her lips and narrows her eyes. "Is it anything Buttercup and I can help you with? If you're sick, you don't need extra exposure to the cool air."

"No," _absolutely not_, she thinks frantically, "I'll be okay."

Her blonde sister leans back. "Okie dokie, just make sure you get home safely. And don't stay out too late, okay? Even if you're not sick yet, if you overdo it, you could be."

Blossom nods and is about to assure her that yes, she'll do just that, when there's a loud bang followed by clattering from the back. The two sisters look at each other in surprise and even some of their customers glance up from their conversations.

"REVENGE," Buttercup screams, then cackles maniacally from somewhere in the back. Her exclamation is followed by someone else swearing up a storm, and several pots and pans clanging together.

Bubbles meets her sister's questioning gaze. "Mitch is working today."

Blossom worries about their middle sister, sometimes.

She waves at Bubbles again and turns toward the door. "I'll see you after closing, okay?"

The youngest Utonium sibling waves back and smiles. "Okay, bye!"

After leaving Confection Connection and pulling up the hood of her sweatshirt, she cautiously walks around the block and comes back to check on things in Knead Bread?. Today, Boomer is waiting and bussing tables, Butch is lounging in a corner booth, and Brick is manning the counter. Perfect. She ducks around the corner and starts the trek to their apartment, mentally doing the calculations in her head. Today is Saturday, and usually on Saturday, Brick goes home first—that leaves Boomer and Butch to close up. Mojo is out of town at some baking convention, just like the Professor. So between eight and nine pm, Brick will be the only one home.

She smiles and pops her headphones into her ears.

What could possibly go wrong?

x

Murphy's Law.

First rule of thumb: Never ever, _ever _ask yourself or anyone else what could possibly go wrong. Because, given the situation, anything and everything that can go wrong, _will _go wrong.

Blossom stares up at the apartment building, wondering how she didn't think of this when she was here earlier. Now it's almost dark, and she has no way of actually getting _inside _the building. Instead, she's stranded on the ground, in the middle of the bits and pieces that were formally her flawless plan. Didn't the homes of potential targets usually have a trellis? Some vines? _Something_? Isn't that how it happened in all the movies? This would be a lot easier if there was a trellis.

But no. There is not a trellis that she can climb up to Brick's window. Darn it. How could she not have accounted for this? If she can't even get in, then she also can't get what she came for. She's even been to their apartment once before today—actually invited that time, albeit it was a rather reluctant invitation. And yet somehow this very small, very important detail slipped her mind.

The Johnsons live on the fifth floor, and there's no way she can get up there without help.

Even if she _had _remembered, it's not like she could've dragged a ladder downtown. So maybe this had been in vain all long. Now she feels stupid. It's a good thing no one else knows about her entering and snatching plan. And it really was just entering. It wasn't like she was going to break into their apartment.

Well she can't just walk in through the front door, so there's no point in going inside. All that's left is to go home, defeated, and eat a carton of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. Maybe she'll watch some rom-coms to try and cheer herself up. It's doomed to fail, but what else is there?

Dejectedly, she heaves a sigh and turns to go home. Dusk is over by now, and the streetlights are flickering on around her. One near the alley that stretches behind the apartment building is having a difficult time actually turning on, and it draws her attention. When it does finally come on, she notices something that she hadn't before.

(For the second time today, she wonders how she could be so dumb.)

A fire escape.

Forget trellises and weak ivy vines, _that _is the way to go.

Blossom jogs into the alley and checks her watch. It's almost eight thirty, so she still has time. With a triumphant smile, she looks up and counts the windows until she reaches Brick's. Amazingly enough, it's right off the fire escape. Coincidence? Hm.

Humming the theme from _Mission: Impossible_, she vaults herself onto the rickety metal structure and starts to climb. It's part ladder, part landing, and part stairs. A sketchy thing at best, she wonders if it's been inspected by the city lately. But it holds, and as she makes her way up the escape as quietly and quickly as she can—which, it's not easy, okay, her sneakers make a dull clanging sound every time she takes a step—and within five minutes, she's at her target entrance.

And there, on the desk by the slightly cracked window, is the very thing she came for.

Blossom braces herself and pushes the window open the rest of the way. She slips one jean-clad leg inside and her breath catches. She can't believe she's doing this. Is she really going to sneak inside and take the cap from right under Brick's nose? Seriously? What would her father think of her? And Bubbles? Buttercup would probably encourage this. Maybe she would've even brought the ladder had she come along.

She shakes her head. No, she's come this far. There's no turning back now.

The redhead slips inside and lands gracefully on the floor with a soft _thud. _Brick's room isn't anything like she remembers it, but then again, that was close to eleven or so years ago. The light is off, but she can clearly see around. His bed is neatly is not hastily made, there's at least one shelf jam packed with books, a planetary system model like the ones they made in fifth grade sitting on top of it, and a jacket hanging on the back of his door. It's nothing like she expected it to be.

She tears her eyes away and picks up the red baseball cap he's worn every day since probably before she can remember. It's worn and around the edges, most likely from all the use, and she fingers it carefully. It makes her wonder, if this one if so old, why doesn't he just get a new one? It doesn't have a decal, and it doesn't look like anything special, and she's seen planet of plain red baseball caps in stores through the years. But this one feels different somehow. It smells nice too, like him.

Her heart nearly bursts out of her chest when she hears the footsteps coming down the hall, and she quickly slaps the thing on her head—backwards, in her haste, just like he's always worn it—and scrambles for the window. She's hallway out of it, face flushed, when Brick pushes open the door of his room and catches her in the middle of her escape.

The light filtering in from the hallway lights her rosy cheeks, and her wide, rosier eyes. Her expression is a cross between shock, embarrassment, and fear. She's dressed in an old, faded pink hoodie and dark jeans, with well-worn pink converse on her feet. And she's wearing his cap. It's on backwards, and some of her auburn fringe is sticking out the hole in the back. There's a bit of black face paint smudged across her cheeks, and she's smiling.

She looks beautiful.

Blossom gives a cry of surprise and accidentally falls out the window. There's an earth-shattering _bang _as she lands on the fire escape, back first. She rolls over and practically jumps an entire level, landing on the fourth floor platform with an even louder _clang. _Brick rushes to the open window and watches her descend with Olympic-like speed. She lands on the ground and is running down the street before he can even think of going after her.

Something red catches his eye, and he stares down at the end of a red ribbon sticking out of one of the desk drawers.

x

Blossom doesn't stop running until she's at least a good five blocks away. Her hair is a mess and she feels like her soul is about to float out of her body, and she leans over and braces her palms on her knees.

"Ohmygosh ohmygosh _ohmygosh_."

He saw her.

Brick saw her.

He looked stunned, too. Probably because he never expected anyone to climb up the fire escape outside his room just to sneak in and steal his favorite baseball cap, of all things. Probably also because she would've been the last person he would have expected to do so. She closes her eyes tightly, but all she can see is _him. _

His eyes are wide and his mouth is open in surprise. He's not wearing a shirt, and she tries to rub the image out of her head. He must've just gotten out of the shower because his hair was wet against his neck and she can clearly see water droplets dripping down his cheeks. Blossom grabs at her hair—it's not very effective, because she's still wearing _his cap_—and screams.

Why did she do this again? Why why why?

This was absolutely not supposed to happen. She hadn't counted on—on—

And now he's stuck in her head, standing there in his low-hanging plaid pajama pants. Shirtless. _Why _is he even that—that _built_? He works in a _bakery_, for crying out loud. He shouldn't be…be like _that. _It's not fair, she thinks mournfully.

Blossom rubs her back (she's sure there's an imprint from his fire escape on it) and wearily starts to trudge home. When Buttercup and Bubbles return to find her lying immobile on the couch, bundled up like a burrito and staring blankly at the tv, their younger sister declares that Blossom looks even worse than before.

The redhead replies by burying her burning face even deeper into her blanket burrito.

"I'm a _criminal_," she whispers to herself when they can't hear her.

x

Blossom sleeps fitfully, the stolen cap stashed away in one of her dresser drawers.

Brick doesn't sleep at all.

_tbc_

—

**end notes: **you see i even referenced her story. the art thefts are all legit too okay. i was researching them at two am this morning to write this. sadly, that's not even out of the ordinary for me.


End file.
